


Booty Before Brains

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Because You Know I Had To, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Crack, Explicit Sexual Language, First Meetings, Humor, M/M, Pirate Benny Lafitte, Pirate Dean Winchester, Pirates, Pure Crack, Sexual Humor, Vampirate Benny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16062341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean buries the cool nose of the flintlock into the back of the man’s shambolic brown locks. “Hand over the booty now and I’ll spare ya a lung while I’m breakin’ yer legs.”Dean can feel the gun kick a little when the man tenses up. And he hates liars, so his chest only grows hotter when the man answers, “Uh... yeah, no booty here.”“Don’t hornswaggle me, you picaroon, or I’ll cut off yer ear!”“You can cut off my ear, but it won’t change me having any of your booty.”





	Booty Before Brains

Dean sighs with struggle. The humidity hugs him like a sweaty, stocky lad—and he hates hugs.

Well… okay, truth be told, he likes hugs. A lot. But there has to be some consent beforehand. And yes, that probably sounds backhanded, seeing as Dean’s lived and breathed the pirate life since his father and his before, and pirates are notorious for neglecting the word consent, but he’s not that kind of scallywag—and if you don’t believe him, he doesn’t have a backhand! At least not one he can spare.

Most of the time, with his only fleshy right hand, he’s too busy driving _Baby,_ an 80-ton galleon who’s carried three generations of Winchesters—and hopefully a fourth. Dean’s enjoyed every minute on the sea, every drop of rum, and every taste of a nice bella and fella, but it’d be nice to share it with someone. Aside from the weather forcing him to drink the sea, it’s not a bad life. He has a killer view of the sunrise (seriously, people have tried to kill him for his ship)—the only time of day the clouds leave a thin footprint stretching for miles across the blue and orange sky. He has fresh air on tap, and not to mention all the time and freedom in the world, which he usually occupies drinking rum and humming old folk tunes. When Benny’s not busy throwing bodies overboard, he’ll join him on harmony.

Other times, like this afternoon, he’ll be tipped about another ship hoarding stolen treasure. And everyone knows if you wanna make it as a pirate you have to steal back treasure that was never rightfully yours.

He sets his course east in search of the scurvy dog with his treasure. It’s only a caravel, so it shouldn’t be too hard to spot. If anything, Dean’ll run _his_ ship right over it without even noticing.

“Benny, quit yer slobberin’ and be me lookout!” Dean shouts not too long later. “I think I see ‘er on me three-o’-clock!”

“Captain, we can’t tell time—we’re pirates!”

“Ahead of me, half a head turn to the right!”

Dean hears Benny’s spyhole click shut before his thick, unrestrained laugh. “Jackpot!” he exclaims, joining Dean at the bow of the ship. “Do ya reckon they’ll have fresh meat aboard?”

“Surely no man can steal forty-thousand doubloons alone.”

“F-forty thousand—?”

Dean nods with a grin that cuts grease of even the most thoroughly swabbed decks. “Ay, forty thousand, mate. You know what you’d do with forty-thousand?”

“Easy,” Benny says, “buy a lifetime supply of blood through the black market.”

“Is everything about blood with you, mate?”

“I _am_ a vampire, so yar.”

Dean sighs. “I _meant_ top-shelf rum and miles of prostitutes.”

Benny looks as perplexed and out-of-place as a trout caught in their net.

Dean rolls his eyes. “And I’m sure those prostitutes have unruly pimps you can drink from.”

“Hook, line, ‘n sinker!” Benny slaps Dean’s arm, causing his tricorne to slip to the side of his head. “What’re we waitin’ for?! Full speed ahead, Chief!”

Dean parks _Baby_ alongside the caravel while Benny runs to the back of the ship to sink the anchor. Once they’re secure, Dean drops the plank and moves in. His boots aren’t subtle on the thin strip of creaky wood, nor his gold amulet slapping against the three aluminum flintlocks halfway tucked into the pockets of his large brown coat (a reminder to honor his fallen brother), but if he wanted subtle, he would’ve hired a ninja. Ninjas are cowards. Stealth is cowardice. Pillaging someone’s ship and murdering them comes with a sense of pride. It’s not a mission—it’s a hobby. And hobbies are meant to be openly expressed.

Whipping one of the three guns out, Dean hops off the board and explores the boat. Only the rattle of what he assumes is rum in surrounding barrels echoes across his ears. Dean does what he does best: He grabs five of them and rolls them to Benny. He yanks a bottle out of one of them and moans when it careens down his throat. That’s good rum. Well-aged and well-preserved. The only thing stopping him from rolling another barrel is the new disturbance in the air.

Dean runs towards the noise. It’s the door to the underbelly of the ship—a good place for treasure to be hiding. It swings open to reveal the man he assumes he’ll be killing over it. Dean buries the cool nose of the flintlock into the back of the man’s shambolic brown locks. “Hand over the booty now and I’ll spare ya a lung while I’m breakin’ yer legs.”

Dean can feel the gun kick a little when the man tenses up. And he hates liars, so his chest only grows hotter when the man answers, “Uh... yeah, no booty here.”

“Don’t hornswaggle me, you picaroon, or I’ll cut off yer ear!”

“You can cut off my ear, but it won’t change me having any of your booty.”

Dean cocks his head. “What’s yer deal, mate? Are you a… maso-masothel—masochrysler?”

The man twists his head. Dean follows the movement with his gun. “Masochist?”

“And how in Davey Jones do you know so many words?” Dean asks. “Unless yer one’a them. _The privateers_. You sure speak like one.”

The man sighs. “Look, I’m neither on your team or against it. Go ahead, you can ransack the place, but you’d be wasting your time. I don’t want some stupid treasure—I don’t _need_ it. I just transport snitches to be… well, _snuffed._ They sell around eighty-thousand doubloons per dozen.”

“You don’t… wait, hold on,” Dean prefaces before laughing, “yer telling me you recapture people _we’ve_ held captive?”

Shrugging, the man replies, “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well you’re _welcome,”_ Dean scoffs, “if it wasn’t for us crackin’ their ribs in the first place, you’d be outta work.”

“I mean, if you want to get cocky about it, sure.”

“So I cut off another man’s ear for a nonexistent booty?”

“Well, you don’t have to be rude now.”

Dean blinks a few times. “Huh?”

The man turns around so he’s facing Dean and winks. “Argh.”

Dean’s eyes blow wide. And Dean thought the sea was unpredictable.

Well, it’s not like the man’s unattractive. In fact, he’s probably the most stunning man he’s laid eyes on. He’s well-acquainted with the sun, and his eyes with the sea. Dean’s gaze wanders to his lips. It takes him a whole bottle of rum just for them to balloon out like that. That much cushion must do wonders for blowjobs. “What’s yer name?”

“Cas.”

“Alright, Cas, I’ll cut me losses for today.” Dean gestures with his head to Benny on the other ship, who also has an unwavering gun aimed at Cas. “But me mate needs his daily feed.”

“He can take the people downstairs,” Cas rejoins quickly. “They’re all disposable. Liars. Thieves. Traitors. The government was just gonna dump them overboard anyhow. He can have at them there while you, me, and your left hook get to know each other at bow of the ship. But only on the condition that I see the sun illuminating those pretty greens while you’re fucking me.”

With that, Dean finally lowers his gun—the one in his hand, that is. “Deal.”

 

No, Dean’s not ready to retire just yet. After all, one more taste of the pirate life wouldn’t hurt.

 

 


End file.
